Lucy Callahan.
I haven’t used that name in ten years.
Chapter Two
New York 2005
I was replaying the voice-mail message when my roommate walked into our dorm room.
Nylah waved at my cell phone. “It’s called telemarketing, Lucy. Hang up.”
I lowered the phone. “Hmm?”
“You looked confused, which means you’re listening to some spiel about duct cleaning, making absolutely sure it’s sales before you hang up.” She paused. “No, actually, Lucy Callahan doesn’t hang up on anyone. That would be rude.”
I set the phone down and stepped aside so she could get to the coffee maker. No sane person came between Nylah and her 3 p.m. fix.
“It was actually a voice message from an old teacher,” I said. “I took a summer film class with him a few years back.”
“Ah, yes, film classes. Before you abandoned your Hollywood dreams for a musical career.”
I rolled my eyes. While I loved film, I never earned more than faint praise for my directing and screenwriting. My viola playing, on the other hand, landed me here at Juilliard on a scholarship.
Nylah added grounds to her coffee maker. “Please tell me this former teacher called to say he’s belatedly realized your brilliance and wants to offer you a paid internship.” She paused, finger hovering over the Brew button. “Unless he’s skeevy. Is there any chance he’s been watching the calendar, waiting for you to turn eighteen? If so, do not return that call.”
“First, he’s in his fifties. Second, he’s gay. Third, he’s offering me a job teaching music.”
Nylah sighed. Deeply. “The fact he’s fifty doesn’t mean he wouldn’t hit on you, Luce. I’ll accept gay as a potential disqualifier, but only if you’ve seen him with guys and he isn’t just saying that to put female students at ease. And private music lessons?” She snorted. “It’s not his flute you’ll be blowing.”
I shook my head as I sat at our tiny table. “Music lessons for children. Their parents have a beach house in the Hamptons, and I’d be there for the summer, teaching music while looking after the kids.”
“Mary Poppins of the Hamptons? Not too shabby. So why the frowny-face when I came in?”
“Mr. Moore said I’d be working for ‘Colt Gordon.’ He repeated it three times like it was a big deal. Is that a person? A company?”
“C-Colt Gordon?” Nylah stammered. “The Colt Gordon?”
“You sound an awful lot like Mr. Moore. I should know the name, shouldn’t I?”
“Did I just say you should go into film? I take that back if you don’t know who Colt Gordon is. The President’s Wife? Fatal Retribution one, two and three?”
“Oh, he’s an actor, right?”
“That is like asking if Pavarotti is an opera singer. Colt Gordon is a bona fide movie star. Look up the top-grossing movies for the past five years. He starred in at least half of them.”
“Wait! Isn’t he married to Isabella Morales? Holy crap. I’d be working for Isabella Morales.”
Nylah shrugged and spooned sugar into her coffee. “She’s all right. I’ve seen her in a few things. Marrying him certainly helped her career.”
“Helped—helped—?” I sputtered. “A pox on you and your house, girl. Isabella Morales was a Mexican national treasure by the age of twelve. A freaking legend in the world of telenovelas.”
Nylah rolled her eyes. “I’m about to get another lecture on the underappreciated art of telenovelas, aren’t I?”
“Isabella Morales is a goddess. Started acting at the age of seven, and by eighteen, she was lead writer on her show. Totally self-taught. She began tweaking her scripts when she was a kid, and the writers humored her, but by the time she was a teenager, she wrote all her own lines and was drafting storylines, too. By twenty-one, she was directing.”
“Then she married a huge American movie star and got to give up all that hard work for a cushy life raising his children.” Nylah lifted her hands. “Kidding. Don’t kill me. I just like to see that temper flare. You’re a redhead and a Latina. You need to let that fire out more often. Live up to the double stereotype.”
I’m only a quarter Latina. The rest is Irish and Italian, but if I point that out, Nylah claims that just gives me more reason to be tempestuous, one word that has never been used to describe me.
“Yes, Isabella did marry some action movie star,” I said. “And she played a few roles in Hollywood movies, but she quit acting when she had kids. She continued writing for telenovelas, and she just started work on an American one she created herself. She’ll be the producer.”
“I get the feeling you’re a fan of this Isabella chick.”
I shot her a look.
“Which probably means you don’t want to work for her, right?” Nylah said. “I mean, that’d be terrible, spending the summer in the Hamptons, living with a gorgeous movie star . . . and a woman you idolize.”
Working for Isabella Morales.
I’d been offered a job working for Isabella Morales.
“I . . .” I swallowed. “That could be really awkward, with me being a fan, and—”
“Oh, my God, are you actually hesitating?” She shoved the phone at me. “Call him back, or I will.”
I stared at the phone. Then I made the call.
Chapter Three
Rome 2019
The parcel sits on my kitchen table, my former name screaming in block letters, and my past surges again, making my heart pound a drumbeat that steals my breath. My fingers tremble as I reach for the box. Then I remember the unlocked door. The courier service certainly doesn’t have keys to my apartment. Does that mean whoever entered my apartment brought this inside for me?
Most considerate burglar ever.
I manage another weak laugh and roll my shoulders, struggling to stay calm. I made this choice. I came into this apartment, knowing the door was unlocked. If I’m really doing this, I need to see it through without collapsing in a heap on my kitchen floor.
My gaze slides to the stairs. It’s a narrow flight, curving around to the loft bedroom. I back up and slide a knife from the drawer.
The problem with curving stairs is that there’s no way to sneak up. The top of my head will appear before I can see anything.
I proceed slowly, holding my breath. I’ll admit I’m starting to feel a little silly. I haven’t heard even a floorboard creak since I’ve come in, and in a place this old, every board creaks.
The stairs open right into my bedroom. It used to remind me of an attic garret, the sort of place I’d read about, where the family stores their crazy aunt, saving themselves the embarrassment she might cause. It’s a little late for my family. Not that they’d ever complained. I stashed myself in Italy, and my garret cell has become a gorgeous nook instead, a cozy attic bedroom straight out of a little girl’s dream.
From the stairs, I can see that my bed is empty. It’s within arm’s reach, a double mattress on the floor with no space for anyone to hide underneath. The minuscule bathroom is off to my right, and I can see it’s empty. Across the room, the terrace door shutters stand open.